make today great

movie love

Hello! This is where I’ll be putting a collection of thoughts on rom coms: the good, the bad, and the Ephron. I don’t even know if it will make sense or if anyone will care, so it sounds like a good idea, right? Okay, then.

Debra Messing looks so good in powdered blue. (Update: There’s powdered blue in every scene. Seriously, look at her apartment.)

Why is Debra Messing—or the hairdresser—fighting this hair texture, huh? Free the curls!

Confession: I really wanted a matching luggage set because of this movie.

Does anyone else always associate Dermot with My Best Friend’s Wedding? Like, he is that character, which is so sad because that means things didn’t work out with Kim, and he became a prostitute instead.

Amy Adams is blonde! Amy Adams is brilliant! Honestly, she has the performance of this film. She does it broadly, but it’s all so genuine. Favorite Amy line: “Did Kat tell you she dumped you because of your funky breath?”

Here’s where the movie goes awry. Jeffrey? That man? That’s the one you can’t get over? They have no chemistry, and by “they” I mean Jeffrey and me.

Debra Messing is so darn funny.

It just hit me that this is the male version of Pretty Woman, but in this version the male prostitute is smooth and rich and writing being interviewed in national newspapers instead of using a safety pins to hold up his pleather boots. That’s an essay.

England has the cutest cars.

My favorite part of this movie:

It took me almost an hour to make that GIF, and it’s awful.

EYESHADOW!

I’m not a prude, but Woody grosses me out. And he only has two lines. That’s acting.

MICHAEL BUBLÉ!

I know this is like a B- rom com, but man, I do enjoy this dance scene. (Maybe because it’s our one moment of emotional development between the main characters?)

So Dermot’s character studied Comparative Literature at Brown University, and now he’s a prostitute. Is this movie a commentary on the realities of student debt and getting a job with a liberal arts degree?

Dinner party scene! Finally, we get to see the family in action. Why does this only come in once and an hour into the movie? Aside from the sister drama, we never really get to the bottom of why Kat feels so negative about her family. What’s that about? I don’t even know her parents, but who cares because it’s time for more MICHAEL BUBLÉ!

I want to live in this town.

Here’s where this movie goes awfully, awfully wrong for me. The big “get together” scene is totally blown. First of all, you have two minor characters running after each other (the sister’s fiancé and the ex-fiancé). I don’t care about them. At all. We haven’t even spent time with them! Second, Debra’s “movie dad” quotes the same article Dermot’s character quoted to her; it comes off as very coincidental. This is the one moment a rom com should earn, and this one doesn’t. Dad: “Here, let me bring up this line when mentioned before *winks to audience.” Lastly, what does Dermot say when he finally gets to his girl?

“I realized I’d rather fight with you than make love with anyone else.”

Umm what? Did you guys even fight? If we rewind the tape I think we’ll see that about two lines were exchanged and then they separated. Also, he’s a prostitute, right? Basically he said, “I’d rather you yell at me for two minutes than work, i.e. have sex with a stranger for money.” Wow. Romance. There’s no “I wanted it to be you so badly” or “I’m just a girl standing in front of a boy” or “I was looking up.” Nope. No. No. The movie is ruined because of one line.

But then it ends in a wedding, so I find myself being okay with it again. Almost.

Amy ends up with the best guy in this movie. You know Ed is never going to hurt her even though she cheated. It doesn’t seem fair. (Inner voice: Life isn’t fair.)

I had almost forgotten I was seeing a Star Wars movie. Somewhere between picking my soda flavor (Cherry Vanilla Diet Dr. Pepper) and tearing my ticket, I blacked out. But when those two words burst on screen accompanied by musical splendor, I jumped and laughed out loud. My brother laughed too. We were giddy because we were watching a Star Wars film. It was really happening.

And for two hours I was far, far away, wrapped up in a galaxy that still feels right at home. I loved almost every moment. (You know the exact moment that I didn’t love.)

After the film was over I was so anxious to text my friends; there were so many details to discuss – so many questions to sort out. Who is the heck is Rey? How long did it take Mark Hamill to memorize his lines?

I mean, let’s talk casting. Adam Driver as Kylo Ren? Hello, my confusing friend. Adam Driver just has a nice face. I don’t mean that he’s good looking–though I’m oddly attracted. I just mean he looks like a nice person. When we watch this nice face do awful things; it makes the entire movie interesting. This is supposed to be the face for hipsters everywhere! Surely, he really is handing over his lightsaber. Let it go, Ben. Ben! Let it GO! BEN NO BEN I HATE YOU WHYYYYY.

(Also, let’s talk about how Han and Leia named him Ben. I’d like to believe there were a lot of family moments where they all sat around and told little Ben about Obi Wan. And if that wasn’t the case, maybe it should have been. I don’t want to blame Leia and Han for Ben’s choices, but what wasn’t this boy getting at home?)

One of my friends didn’t feel the same about Kylo Ren. He made a good point though: Kylo Ren was introduced as someone with whom the Force was extremely strong. However, as we saw the movie progress, it seemed like Kylo was much more akin to a youngling than Ben Kenobi.

Kylo Ren’s abilities crumble before him; any guy who can stop a laser without looking should be able to emerge from a lightsaber battle with a complete novice–looking at you, Finn–unscathed. Just saying. Also, his lightsaber was totally homemade. (I want to see that DIY blog post.) I understood my friend’s point about Kylo, and I had a similar problem–not with Kylo Ren, but with Rey.

Rey. What a badass, right? I mean, wow. I’d love to see Rey and Furiosa team up at some point—not sure how to make that crossover happen outside of my personal fanfiction. (Working title: “Three Arms Kick Ass”)

The problem I had with Rey is that she knew absolutely nothing about the Force, and yet, she was pretty darn good at using it the last 45 minutes. So… a day after finding out the Force is real, she’s able to use Jedi mind tricks?

True story: it took me a year to find the switch on my vacuum that made the suction go from the hose to the bottom of the vacuum. I used it FOR AN ENTIRE YEAR thinking it was an awful machine. So I guess I found it a little unbelievable that Rey could pick all of this up so quickly. It wasn’t my understanding that we could all tap into the Force whenever we felt like it without training. Rey had no training, but could yield the power of the force; Kylo Ren had loads of training, and he still couldn’t overcome a complete novice.

And then it hit me: This is a classic case of knowledge versus understanding. Ohhh Star Wars, you philosophical dog, you. (Why aren’t there dogs in space?)

Kylo Ren has all the knowledge of the force he needs, and yet, he doesn’t get it. He looks for answers from the broken mask of his grandfather, not the Force. Rey is leagues below Kylo in terms of training and knowledge, and yet, she understands the Force. Did you see her with her eyes calmly closed in that final lightsaber battle? If that’s not understanding I don’t know the exact coordinates of Jakku!

So why does Rey get it while Ben’s so lost? Rey’s been living on her junkyard planet for entire life, right? So what did she have to have? Hope.

Rey lives off of hope; she gets hope because she’s had to tap into it every day just to keep on going. Kylo Ren does everything in his power to shut hope out. I don’t think it’s about talent or amount of Force in their veins. Kylo Ren and Rey probably have the same amount of midichlorians, but Rey leans into hope and that makes her understand the light side of the Force.

So even if you’re like me and horribly depressed about a certain part of The Force Awakens, have “a new hope.” (I had to.) Understand/feel/have faith in the Force, even if you don’t know it. Yoda’s voice: For a path to the Jedi this makes.

I’ve blogged about my mom before for her birthday. I could blog about her for the rest of my life because she’s just that wonderful, but in order to get everyone to brunch, I’ll keep it relatively short.

My mom is a summer gal. (Though she’d say her favorite season is fall for the leaves.)

Every summer she always has a list a mile long of changes she wants to make on the house, gardens to plant, vacations to take, books to read, and, of course, spending most afternoons at the pool. Now, usually this doesn’t all get done. (Sorry, Mom.) However, an amazing amount of this list is accomplished because my mom is always going and always making time for the “most afternoons in the pool” part.

I was going to tell a story about me calling Mom daily from my high school teacher’s phone to apologize for being snippy on the way in, but I actually think that says more about me (though it was probably inherited from her).

Instead, I want to talk about two moms in stories I’ve read/seen lately.

I recently read The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold. I know. I’m a little behind. The prose in this book is incredible, and the characters are amazing as well. (Mom, you wouldn’t like it.)

The mother in the book is sad. She’s sad about her place in life. She’s sad to be a mom. Now, I know I’m talking about being a mom when I’m not one, so feel free to shove the screen away. But I am talking about this from the perspective of growing up with a mom who made me feel really, really wanted.

Now, to be fair to the mom in the book, she goes through unspeakable tragedy in her daughter’s death. (This comes out in the first ten pages.) But it becomes clear throughout that she didn’t want any of this mother business. I understand. Well, the best I can, I understand. Don’t all moms sometimes feel trapped? Feel inadequate? Feel like their kids took everything good from their lives?

(My mom is saying “no” and wondering where this is going. Me too, Mom.)

Anyway, I get that moms don’t always feel like supermoms. But the mother in that story leaves her family. And there was something missing there that I couldn’t figure out. Like, it asked a question, but it gave the “wrong” answer.

Then, yesterday, I saw Moms’ Night Out.

By myself.

At a matinee.

I was the odd singleton surrounded by moms’ groups.

Now, the movie was really cute and unabashedly Christian. (That’s kind of refreshing sometimes.) And there’s a mom in the film who feels very similar to the one in The Lovely Bones. The mom in the movie makes it clear that having kids was something she really wanted, but she’s just not happy.

The mom in Moms’ Night Out feels a similar sense of drowning, of never measuring up, of missing everything good in the chaos, and of making mistakes. A lot of them.

(I should say that I don’t think the film was without its issues, even with the concept. Could they make a Dads’ Night Out movie? Because dads don’t “babysit” their own children. They’re their children! Thank you to Mrs. Denning, Jill‘s Mom, for setting that straight.)

The mom in The Lovely Bones leaves. She decides she’s inadequate.

The mom in Moms’ Night Out decides that she’s been equipped. Every day might not be sunshine, but she’s doing the best she can, she’s loving her kids, and she’s spending her afternoons in the pool, figuratively.

Oh, I know you’re not supposed to compare moms. I don’t mean this in any malicious way. Both stories have their place. Also, the mom in The Lovely Bones went through A WHOLE LOT, and I don’t even begin to know how I would handle something like that.

But I do think that mother represents this question in culture of moms. Both of the moms in the stories ask the question of what do you do when things get rough. One mom leaves. The other stays.

I know my mom must have some of these feelings. It’s a mom thing, right? She would never tell us (or show us) that, but I think it’s normal for moms to feel like they’re screwing up their kids’ lives.

But it’s incredible thing when you get a mom who not only chooses to stay every day as the wrangler of four children, but who also chooses to have fun with it all too.

My mom is not perfect. (Sorry, Mom.) But like the movie said, “I don’t think the good Lord made a mistake in giving your kiddos the momma He did.”

She’s the perfect mom for me, and I can’t believe I’ve been so lucky to have her.

So, after some very convoluted thoughts on motherhood, which I am on the outside of, to all the moms (and especially mine), here is your honest Mother’s Day wish:

I know it’s not always easy. I know sometimes you feel like a failure. Or you feel like you’re kiddos are sucking every ounce of fun right out of you. Or your kids are truly sucking every ounce fun out of you.

But you are capable.

You are loved.

And doing the best you can means you’re the perfect mom for your kids. So breathe and get to the pool most afternoons, figuratively (and literally, when you can).

One could see my life as a series of obsessions: times (varying from a week to several years) when a subject, movie, book, or show consumes me. One could also stop using “one” as a pronoun. One could try.

There’s a fun read by Polly Shulman titled Enthusiasm that speaks to this sort of crazy, following a character as she discovers Jane Austen.

I had a Jane Austen phase, too.

I don’t know if “phase” is the right word. Phase implies an end. Once I’m obsessed with something it never really goes away. The pain is just lessened. The intense heartache I feel in the middle of an obsession is eventually replaced with a dull twang.

Back to Jane Austen. Back to writing letters that began: “To My Future Mr. Darcy.” Back when my children’s names were planned to be “Fitzwilliam” and “Georgiana.” Mom doubts this is not still currently my plan. (Maybe I do, too.)

There have been other author enthusiasms and other book obsessions.

Boston Jane. A little series that made me like cherry pie, and I HATED cherries.

Ella Enchanted. Ella and I both “frell” for Char.

Harry Potter.

John Green could fall into this category as well, but it really all began with the vlogbrothers and not with his books. The land of Nerdfighteria is deep and fathomless, and I’m still a little in there.

There have been movie enthusiasms.

Mom says my very first obsession was with Wild Hearts Can’t Be Broken (or as I call it, “Diving Girl”), a movie about a girl who rides a horse into a pool. It inspired me to befriend my imaginary horse named “Wilburt with a ‘T.'” Obviously, this obsession ran over into the period of Anne of Green Gables enthusiasm.

There’s my killer whale stage, aided and instigated by Free Willy. I had a blow up Keiko -Willy’s real name, people- for the pool. I aspired to be a marine biologist. I considered the ways in which I could fill the lake outside our house with saltwater to properly accommodate a whale. Certain recent tragedies of SeaWorld have all but crushed my image of riding an orca (but now that you mention it, said whale would obviously be my best friend and have a super clever name like “Free Hilly.”)

There was the Age of Star Wars, one of my longest obsessions, strongest from ages 8 to 14. Highlights of this obsession include: attendance at Star Wars Celebration, a Queen Amidala Halloween (or maybe two or three), and several Tatooine-themed sleepovers (with only myself).

Does watching Mutliplicity at least once a day for several months count as an obsession? Add Multiplicity then. I’m not proud.

For television there was 7th Heaven, a show I recorded on VHS tape for my sister when she went to medical school. I thought she was probably going crazy without watching. (She wasn’t.)

There was the three months of watching every I Love Lucy episode multiple times. I read both Lucy and Desi’s autobiographies, watched several documentaries and miniseries about them, imagined living at Desilu Ranch, and cried several times over the couple’s failed marriage (and not over the fact that they are both deceased). I was 20.

The Young and The Restless. I blame Mimi (my grandmother) for starting this, and I blame the Nick/Sharon breakup for ending it.

There were the more odd obsessions.

Presidential trivia. In my memory, it was a blast to utilize on family road trips (but I have a sneaky suspicion that I am the only one who remembers it that way).

Crock pot recipes. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say it involves a “crock pot pancake.”

Crocheting. Two Christmases ago I made everyone in my family a scarf. I haven’t crocheted since.

When I get into something so heavily, I often get hurt. Please see my fourth grade reading of A BridgeTo Terabithia for evidence. **I devoured that book. Ate it up. Then I cried so hysterically that I literally made myself ill.**

Fortunately, I’ve learned to simmer down my tendencies to go bat-crap crazy over something. I do things to protect myself. While reading Divergent over Thanksgiving break, I got pulled in hard, so I looked up the ending when I was halfway through the second book. I know, I know. It was sacrilege, but knowing the end meant I didn’t have to go all in.

Going whole hog insane over something is a very selective process at this point in my life. There are farther stretches between obsessions, and when I do go there, I try to be very intentional about the amount of time I spend thinking about things like roast beef sandwiches. Because when one falls in love, one wants to really mean it (especially in the sandwich arena).

This time was just as magical. Also, seeing movies with good friends, like my Italian Rachel is magical, am I right? Last one, I swear. Check out Rach’s silly face and Jill’s neck below. Oh, and Peeta. That’s all.

I know it’s early, but I couldn’t resist. Plus, I used “films” instead of “movies” in the title, so this is a fancy post, not a silly one. Okay, okay, it’s a silly one. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s not much to me that isn’t silly and crazy and weird. I’m just going to do a list. Kind of lazy, right? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s not much to me that isn’t lazy and silly and crazy and weird. What else can I add to that list? Oh, that’s a post for another time. Anywho, here are my 12 favorite Christmas films.

It’s a Wonderful Life (Zuzu’s petals!)

A Christmas Story (Scut Farcus is the worst villain the world has ever known)

National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation

The Santa Clause (only the first one makes this list)

Elf

White Christmas

Prancer (Prancer! Prancer!)

Hallmark’s A Princess For Christmas (a classic!!)

Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer

Scrooged

Christmas With The Kranks (“Haha, she must be kidding!” Oh, shut up. It’s funny)

Miracle On 34th Street (a twofer. Both original and remake are a-okay!)

It almost NEVER happens, but sometimes the movie is better than the book. No, I’m not talking about Harry Potter, you crazy people. Seriously, people who say the Harry Potter movies were better than the books have not read the series.

Anyway, here’s an article. Nay! An exposé in Lydia Mag where I uncover the five exceptions to the film adaptation norm. It’s shocking! It’s hard-hitting! It’s journalism! It’s… not that big of a deal.

Have I mentioned that I love movies? Oh, I did. Oh, you can tell. Oh, I can’t seem to have a single thought without relating it to a movie you “just have to see.” Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t think my love of movies is going anywhere fast.

I’ve always wanted to be a part of making movies, part of the “dream factory.” In Indiana, this dream felt like a faraway calling, a quest that I would never be quite ready for. In California (more specifically, in Malibu), the dream makers are everywhere; although they just say they’re in the “industry.” I like dream makers more; it’s very Inception; you just have to see Inception. (Told you. It’s a tick.) The industry folk are quite literally my neighbors (yes, even in the “prefabricated homes” park), and there are moments that are so very surreal, it’s surprising I haven’t fainted. For instance, I drove by Dustin Hoffman walking on a beach street. I waved at him, and he waved at me; I cried for the next ten minutes and wrote several drafts of a fan letter explaining what that wave meant to me (don’t worry, I didn’t send it).

Another one of these surreal gems happened this weekend. Rob, Jill, Rachel, and I (and I smell a fantastic friend group here), went to see Gravity at the GRAUMANN’S CHINESE THEATER. As in, where Star Wars first premiered. As in, had to step over Julie Andrews’s handprints to get inside. As in, I could have danced with a Spiderman impersonator on the way out; okay, that one isn’t super cool.

Inside, there was a display case of George Clooney’s astronaut costume for the movie we were about to see! If movies are dreams, this place is where sleeping happens, man. (I feel like I could do better with that analogy.) I found my way to ladies’ restroom, and I thought, “I’m home.” It’s like the calling to be a part of the dream world is still there, but now, it’s not quite as far away. It’s like I’m Pocahontas and everything is “just around the riverbend.”

Although, that’s not quite what I mean because I already have so many of my dreams. Dustin Hoffman is just a person, everybody (mostly talking to myself: “Stop crying.”). The Chinese Theater is just a building. And movies, as much as I love them, are just movies. It’s how these people, places, and artworks invade ourselves that really matters; that’s what gets me excited about movies. It’s who I am and how I treat people that defines the level of success in my life. I love movies, but I love goodness more. I think the two of them can be friends, like Lethal Weapon (Mel is movies, Danny is goodness). You just have to see that movie.

In film school, there’s a lot of introduction action. New professors, new students, new classes, new, new, new. And with every new, I give the same little, inarticulate tale of who I am and how I came to be there. Now what’s truly terrible about these interludes, is the dreaded follow-up question: “what’s your favorite movie?” That’s not to say that movies are dreaded (I am in film school after all), but do you know how hard it is to pick a favorite one? It’s like picking a favorite child – bad example, since my mom would pick me easily. 🙂

This question is stressful. “I should pick something everyone likes, right? Or at least make it a high art film, if one exists. Anything from the AFI list… Just don’t go rom-com.” My thoughts run rapidly, and I’m stuck.

“What’s the film that made you want to be a screenwriter?” The professor usually thinks this question will help me answer, but really, it just sets me back further. And I find myself wondering, honestly, what was the cinematic experience that made me want to do this? The movie that spoke to my heart and said, “this is where you belong.” Wouldn’t that be crazy if movies could speak to your heart? (writing in moleskin now)

Was it Wild Hearts Can’t Be Broken or Pete’s Dragon or Free Willy? Atlantic City! Mickey Rooney! Sa la na, a yuum, iasis! I certainly loved them. I certainly remember them. But really, Wild Hearts just made me want a horse, Pete’s led me to develop my own “imaginary friend” (who was a horse thanks to WHCBB), and Free Willy shaped my future career dreams as a marine biologist for the next blah-blah-still-halfway-a-dream years.

Or couldn’t/shouldn’t the film that made me want to do film be super epic? Like seeing Citizen Kane for the first time? Rosebud! Maybe not Citizen Kane. You can’t hurt me later, but I find it to be the most boring movie I’ve ever sat through more than once.

But It’s A Wonderful Life? Clarence! Clarence! ZuZu’s petals! Surely that film is both epic enough and one that had a huge impact, right? I mean, it makes me speak in a James Stewart accent for at least three days out of each year. That’s something, right?

Or could it be the time I saw Click? Yes, the Adam Sandler movie. After watching it I thought, “I just have to be a part of making people laugh like that.” Or Dumb and Dumber or Tommy Boy? Movies that shaped most of the dialogue I share with my brothers. Oh, Richard. Harry, your hands are freezing.

Or watching Sleepless in Seattle and You’ve Got Mail with my mom? And the experience of witnessing a woman who can’t remember the name of a movie she’s seen the day before (love you!), suddenly recall every Ephron-infused line. It was… magic! Shriveled little legs! I wanted it to be you!

Or maybe going through the Indiana Jones and Star Wars lineup with my dad? Watching epic worlds unfold right before my eyes.

Or the coolest moment of my life, when my chic older sister took me (the annoying little one) to see Princess Diaries at a sneak preview?

Or watching Prancer with my whole family as the Christmas tree lights tinkle in the reflection of the screen.

Or maybe it’s all of them. Movies hold memories. I remember seeing Austin Powers: Goldmember in theaters not because of the movie (trust me), but because I met a very good friend that night and we talked through the whole thing. Calm down, it was a theater full of middle schoolers.

Is it the fact that Free Willy, a movie, made me believe that I wanted to work with orcas without ever being around one? Isn’t that power magical? Isn’t that, combined with every movie that holds a place in my heart, the reason I wanted to be a part of making them?

Now, the question is, how do I make that into a one-word answer? Maybe I’ll just go with Citizen Kane.

This past summer I was able to participate in an internship program (in the film industry) run by a libertarian organization, and last night we had a dinner party for the interns and fellows of the organization in the LA area. I’m not good at these things. I am too excited, too happy to be there to fit in. I should have worn glasses and brushed up on my cool facts about myself, but I didn’t do either of those things. While others ranted on their current noble endeavors to make documentaries on prisons and refugees, I explained my desire to make a funny movie that people would go see. While they mentioned obscure political films, I talked about Goonies and poop jokes. The further conversations went, the more I became wary of telling people I wanted to help create a movie that wasn’t solely fueled by libertarian ideals. To be clear, I thought their ideas were awesome and told them as much, but I just wasn’t being reciprocated. A few hours in, when strangers asked me what I wanted to do, the mantra, “just make it libertarian sounding,” entered my head.

Apparently, this worked so well that the last time I was asked about my future goals I said, “I just want to live in a cabin with lots of land where I can write. And I, uh, I want to have a basement full of ammunition.” After that I called it a night, and I am still mentally shaking my head at myself.